Chapter Text
Part 1: The Language of Submission
Isagi had never thought much about how he spoke until Michael Kaiser handed him a vocabulary list labeled "Commands."
It had been early in their... arrangement. Not quite a relationship, though not just sex either. Something in between: something hot, dangerous, coiled like a spring. At the time, Isagi had only known a few words in German and even less English. But that hadn't stopped Kaiser from shoving the paper into his hand after a tense scrimmage, with a smirk that made his blood rise and his fists twitch.
"If you're going to talk like that when you're on top," Kaiser had said, breath hot at his ear, "you should at least do it right." Isagi, prideful and petty and with zero impulse control, had glared at him and said, "Fine. You'll regret it." He hadn't. Not even once.
At first, it was mostly playful: Isagi trying out awkward phrases in his best serious voice, Kaiser laughing breathlessly underneath him. But then, something shifted. The moment Isagi said, "Stay," in a rough English tone, Kaiser froze. Not from fear; Isagi would never hurt him, and Kaiser knew that - but something deeper. Something primal. His mouth had parted slightly. His pupils dilated. A flush crept up his cheeks, and he obeyed, without a second's hesitation.
They never spoke about it, not really. Isagi wasn't the type to pry without invitation, and Kaiser, well, Kaiser had always been better at pretending things didn't affect him. But after that, whenever Isagi said something in English or German, even if it was a short phrase, Kaiser would soften. Drop his walls. Let himself be held, worshipped, ruined. It became their language of safety. Their language of trust. Sometimes it was only one word: "Look." Or "Good." Or "Speak."
And Kaiser would shudder, eyes wide and reverent. Other times, it was full sentences - stilted and slow, with Isagi repeating them until they sounded right. Eventually, Kaiser stopped laughing at his accent. Instead, he started looking at him like he was something sacred. Outside those moments, their relationship was a minefield of snark and mutual ego damage. They relied on the Mikage translator system for day-to-day communication. It rendered Isagi’s voice smoother, more monotone, almost clinical.
Efficient, easy to understand, but emotionally void. Which, Kaiser had realized, was exactly why he needed it. Kaiser didn't want to blur the lines. Didn't want to hear Isagi's real voice when he was talking about match schedules or whether they had milk in the fridge. He couldn't afford to be soft when it wasn't time to be soft. He couldn't afford to crave that voice when it wasn't being used to command or comfort him. So he kept the delineation strict. Until, of course, Blue Lock decided to ruin everything.
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Part 2: Training Day – English Hell
“From today onward, all Blue Lock players will receive intensive English lessons,” Ego had declared during one of his many fascist 8 a.m. announcements.
“If you are to become the best strikers in the world, you need to communicate with the world.” Isagi had groaned. Reo had clapped sarcastically. Bachira looked far too excited for someone who spoke mostly in emojis. Kaiser, lounging with his feet on a bench, looked vaguely amused. “What, is Ego finally tired of you sounding like confused golden retrievers in interviews?” Isagi shot him a dirty look. “Some of us didn’t grow up with four languages and a superiority complex.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Despite the banter, Isagi did struggle.
His grammar was fine, but his pronunciation made the tutors wince. Worse, he could feel himself slipping into his ‘dom voice’ zone whenever he tried to string English sentences together—deep, slow, and full of hesitation. Like his brain knew how to weaponize it before he did. He turned to Kaiser one night after practice, flopped half-asleep on the couch, translator earpiece set aside. “Can you help me with this?” he asked in halting English. “Please?” Kaiser looked at him, and something in his chest stuttered. Isagi’s voice was real, not filtered, not robotic.
Just him. Earnest, vulnerable, a little frustrated. Still deep, though. Still gravelly. Still the same voice that had whispered “Stay, good, you’re perfect” into his ear weeks ago. “…Fine,” Kaiser muttered, eyes narrowed. “But only because I can’t have my team partner sounding like he’s reading from Google Translate in press conferences.” They started slow. Vocabulary drills. Pronunciation practice. Kaiser tried to focus. He really did. But every time Isagi said something like “Open,” or “Speak,” or even “Harder”—which had been taken completely out of context regarding training intensity—Kaiser found himself biting the inside of his cheek, fighting not to squirm.
It got worse when Isagi started experimenting. Not on purpose, not to tease—Isagi, bless his dumb, sincere heart, had no idea what he was doing. But his voice would drop when he got embarrassed, and he’d repeat words to get the cadence right, and Kaiser felt like he was being unraveled molecule by molecule. By week two, Kaiser was convinced he needed an intervention. Or at least a sensory deprivation tank.
“Repeat after me,” Isagi said one evening. “‘I am very happy to be here.’” “I am going to scream into a pillow,” Kaiser said flatly. “What?” “Nothing.” He couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not when Isagi might use it against him. Not when it made him feel this safe. Not when he wasn’t ready for how much that terrified him.
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Part 3: Absolutely Not – Denial Phase
Kaiser had learned young that vulnerability was currency—and usually a losing one.
When he was fourteen, fresh off a scouted youth contract, his father had told him to “stop whining” when he broke two fingers during training. Not, “Are you okay?” Not, “Do you need a doctor?” Just a clipped, disgusted: “Stop whining.”
By fifteen, he’d been benched—not for playing poorly, but for crying after a match they'd lost in penalties. His teammates laughed. Called him a soft-bellied brat. Said he “wasn’t hungry enough.”
He'd learned fast that tears earned contempt. That softness made you a target. That the only way to survive was to be untouchable.
By sixteen, Michael Kaiser had mastered the art of smirking through pain. Learned to be dazzling instead of honest. Sharp instead of soft. He turned vulnerability into arrogance, grief into mockery, and need into performance.
Love, need, fear—those things were liabilities. And liabilities got eaten alive.
Which was why Isagi’s voice scared the hell out of him.
It started innocently enough.
“Take a break,” Isagi would murmur during training, towel in hand, voice scratchy with exertion.
Kaiser would nod before he even processed the words.
“Sit,” Isagi said once, gesturing toward the bench beside him.
Kaiser sat.
There was no teasing, no expectation. Isagi didn’t look smug when he obeyed. He just looked... calm. Attentive. Like Kaiser’s compliance wasn’t a victory, but a privilege. Like Kaiser’s trust was something sacred.
And Kaiser hated that. Because he wanted it. He wanted to obey. He wanted the comfort of it—the ease, the release.
He liked not thinking.
He liked being told what to do.
He liked being safe.
It was infuriating.
And so, of course, he lashed out.
“Why do you sound like a broken audiobook every time you speak English?” he snapped one day, unprovoked.
Isagi blinked, startled. “What?”
Kaiser turned away, the shame burning hotter than his anger. “Forget it.”
But Isagi didn’t forget it.
Later that night, after the others had gone, Isagi found him in the empty hallway outside the locker room. No translator. No one else.
Just them. Raw.
“You’re scared,” Isagi said, voice low but steady. Not mocking. Just... observant.
Kaiser snorted. “Of what? Your Duolingo stats?”
Isagi stepped closer. “No,” he said. “Of me.”
Kaiser scoffed, but something inside him trembled. “I’m not scared of you,” he muttered, quieter now.
Isagi nodded, like he wasn’t arguing. Just waiting. “Then let me in.”
There was a pause. Long. Heavy. Kaiser’s throat bobbed. His hands curled at his sides.
“Absolutely not,” he whispered.
But his eyes—his eyes betrayed him. Wide and glassy and aching.
Isagi didn’t push. Just stepped closer again, until they were barely inches apart.
“Say it,” he murmured in English. “You want me.”
Kaiser’s lip quivered. He closed his eyes like it physically hurt to let the words out.
“…I want you.”
Isagi didn’t grin. Didn’t smirk. He just nodded, slow and steady.
“I’ve got you,” he said, still in English.
And Kaiser, for the first time in years, believed it.
**
Later, they were back in Isagi’s room. Neither of them said much. Kaiser sat on the edge of the bed, legs twitching restlessly, eyes darting around the room like he was looking for a trap.
Isagi didn’t sit beside him. He stood in front of him. Not looming, not aggressive—just present. Grounding.
“You don’t have to explain anything,” Isagi said. “But you do have to breathe.”
Kaiser gave a shaky laugh. “I am breathing.”
“Not really.” Isagi knelt slightly, enough to look him in the eye. “Let me help.”
Kaiser flinched. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Be nice. Like that. Like you mean it.”
“I do mean it.”
“That’s worse.”
“Kaiser.”
That voice. Firm. Real. Unfiltered.
Kaiser’s shoulders dropped a full inch.
Isagi reached out—slow, visible, careful—and placed a hand on his knee. Just the weight of it. Warm. Steady.
“Breathe,” Isagi said again, and this time, it was a command.
Kaiser obeyed.
In.
Out.
In again.
And something cracked.
“I hate this,” Kaiser whispered. “I hate that it’s you.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to tell me what to do. I want you to look at me like that. I want—” His voice broke. “I want to feel safe. And I hate needing it.”
“You don’t need to hate it,” Isagi said, fingers tightening just slightly. “You’re allowed to need things.”
Kaiser looked up at him, eyes shining. “Not me. I’m not allowed.”
“Says who?”
Kaiser laughed again—bitter and small. “Everyone.”
Isagi leaned forward, voice low and calm. “I’m not everyone.”
Silence.
Then, softly: “Michael. Lie back.”
Kaiser hesitated—but only for a second.
Then he did.
He lay on his back, arms at his sides, eyes still flickering like he didn’t know what to expect. Like part of him was still braced for pain, for rejection, for the other shoe to drop.
Isagi didn’t touch him. Just stood over him, looking down.
“Good,” he said, in English.
Kaiser closed his eyes.
Isagi crouched beside him and brought one hand to Kaiser’s chest—not pressing, just resting it there, over his heart.
“You’re here,” Isagi said gently. “With me. You’re safe.”
Kaiser made a sound—half sigh, half sob.
“I’ve got you,” Isagi repeated. “You’re mine. No one’s going to hurt you here.”
Kaiser’s hands fisted the blanket under him.
“I can’t cry,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to,” Isagi said. “You can just feel. I’ll hold the rest.”
The trembling started in his hands, then rippled up to his shoulders. Isagi didn’t push. Didn’t move. Just stayed there, hand over his chest, thumb stroking lazy circles through the fabric of his shirt.
Eventually, Kaiser opened his eyes. “Can I... Can you stay like this? For a bit?”
Isagi smiled. “As long as you need.”
“Even if I fall asleep?”
“I’ll still be here.”
Kaiser’s eyes fluttered shut again.
“Say something else,” he mumbled. “In English.”
“What do you want to hear?”
“Anything.”
Isagi thought for a moment.
Then, in a low voice, he said: “You are enough.”
Kaiser’s breath hitched.
“You are mine.”
And this time, when Kaiser exhaled, it didn’t sound like fear. It sounded like surrender.